Not One of “Those” Church-Goers

Wow, I am sitting here at Hudson Bay Café waiting for the words to rain down from the invisible puffy clouds of alphabet soup just north of the sky.  And Athena said, “Let there be words!” and there were words.  And Athena said “Let these words be inspired by Love!”  And guess what”!#$%^&*@  Today’s words have been brought to you by the letters L, O, V and E and the number ONE.  At least I hope so.  I certainly want all the words that pour forth from me to be a celebration of love.  Is that possible, even when I’m expressing my kinks, tangles, fears, grievances?  Yes.  I’m gonna say yes.  Because if I waited till I was flawless and pure to write, it would be a little while yet… Maybe five minutes, five years, five lifetimes…

But I’m too excited about expressing myself to sit around and wait for perfection to stain my mind and my finger tips and besides, by then, I probably won’t have anything to say.

In church this morning, I was thinking along these lines.  Thinking that I love church so much… but I don’t want to be carelessly cast into that straighter than straight laced, smaller than small, duller than dull little box that “religious” people get smashed into by the gazillions.  Just because church makes me cream my panties, does NOT make me “one of those”.  I don’t even think I have to expound on the “one of those” concept.  Everybody knows what stereotypical churchgoers are like.  But not me!  I take drugs every now and again, [just to keep things in perspective] I have liberated views on sexuality and I use the F word with relish whenever I fancy.  But not as a default.  Just as one of many revered words that packs a wicked punch.  I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t want to be written off as one of those pious-er than thou types who are as bland as a bowl of plain white rice.

That’s silly.  Nobody’s really that bland. And there’s probably a ton of people who would totally dig on a bowl of white rice.  Nope, I will NOT pass the soy sauce.  Or the butter… or even a sprinkle of salt.  That’s against the rules in the land of bland. If you are gonna take a bold stand for while rice, then make your bed and nestle on in, friend!  Am I just revealing my own judgments right now?   Maybe you don’t share my prejudices about church-goers.  Good for you.

God, can you tell from reading all that I’ve written so far how arduous it was to squeeze out?  Man.  It just about killed me.  I am feeling frustrated like maybe I don’t have anything to say today.  But I will not accept that.  I am gonna pound out some thoughts even if they are all manky and burnt around the edges, or worse yet, bland as stereotypical church goers.  Why?  Because this is what I do.

I know what I want to say!  I am reading the new book by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love.  It’s called “Committed” and it’s about the author’s journey to “get right with marriage”.  At the end of Eat, Pray, Love, she falls in love with this guy she meets in Indonesia (a fellow bitter divorce), and they vow to one another that they will NEVER get tangled in the institution of marriage together, despite the mushy, inspired heart bursting new love chemicals coursing through their blood and driving them to storm the gates of eternity hand in hand.  But then they are forced to tie the knot so that Mister Right (a citizen of Brazil and Australia) can stay in the U.S.  So while they are in foreign lands, impatiently awaiting the single serving packet of eternity for all the paperwork and red tape to give them the matrimonial go ahead, the author attempts to allay her terror by researching the topic of marriage according to various cultures, individuals and historical vantage points.  I felt so jealous when I discovered that SHE had written that book.  I have been bush wacking through the thick tangle that is modern day marriage for quite some time now, searching for my own bearings.

It seems to be something everybody just does.  And then they mostly get divorced.  I witness this and I think to myself, “Holy, Virginal Mother Mary, why would I bother with THAT dead end street?”  Why indeed… I want to find at least seven good reasons to marry.  Really, I do.  I want to get married.  But not just because everyone else is doing it.  Generally, keeping up with the Joneses is NOT the compass of choice to navigate the treacherous though ever compelling waters of the self with.

Wow, this topic contains enough charge in me to power a mid-sized, psychedelic themed amusement park. (It would have a day glow tunnel of love that winds lazily amorous all about the property on a sweet river made of alpine snow melt.  The chariots would be real, live, enormous swans.  Black ones and white ones and maybe even electric pink swans, too.  Maybe that’s what LIFE is… a psychedelic, never-ending tunnel of love.  How romantic!?!  I’m going to imagine that from now on.  And of course my swan is hottie pink.)  Ahem.  What I really wanted to say is that in this book I am reading, the author just visited a Hmong village in the mountains of Vietnam.  The Hmong people live ultra simply, close to the earth.  Entire extended families share a home consisting of one single room with a dirt floor.  The author asked the grandmother of the group all these questions that Americans would find perfectly normal, but the Hmong people could not get their heads around them.  Questions such as, when was the moment that you realized that your husband was the man for you?  And “is your man a good husband?”  We think our concepts exist beyond our rigorously polished, collective, western consciouness.  Wrong.  Other collectives have other ways and language that serves as a reflection of those ways.

The grandmother’s answer to the question of is her man a good husband is simple, “All men and all women are mostly the same.  Everybody knows that.”  HA!  That is such a radically different idea than we live into over here in complicated land… and yet, I can’t deny that it’s not true on some level.  It’s like I said the other day~ All men are retarded assholes and all women are crazy bitches.  Sure, there is a vast assortment of retarded assholes to choose from.  It’s analogous to ice cream flavors.  These days, there are a butt load of flavors to choose from… and god knows we all have our favorites.  But at the end of the day, its all just glorified cream and sugar.

I’ve been learning a lot through these recent inner trials and tribulations I’ve been thrashing about in, in the realm of relationship.  I am seeing myself more clearly than ever before, which is a huge blessing.  In the reflective surface called “my relationship”, I see how critical and perpetually unsatisfied I can be.  And how much suffering that has caused me.  Recently, I have become exhausted in my suffering.  In this state of holy exhaustion, I think I am being beaten into a serene submission.  I know that I will NEVER find “the perfect man”.  So why not just love the pants off the one I’m with… and continuously aspire to be “the perfect woman”, moment to moment, to moment.  This idea relaxes me.  No more exhausting myself with the impossible task of chasing external perfection.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

1 Comment (+add yours?)

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    Aug 23, 2014 @ 16:50:14

    What a cool article. Thanks…


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